


Lost and Found

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve, Pre-Slash, Puppies, Redbeard references, Set in the fic-specific timeline of Canon can go fuck itself, gratuitous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2887952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can usually tell that a man is good if he has a dog who loves him.”<br/>― W. Bruce Cameron, A Dog's Journey </p><p>When John finds a puppy on Boxing Day, he knows he can't keep it. Sherlock doesn't want a dog. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> A thing that started as a drabble and ended up as this, for Mydwynter's Longest Week Drabble Fest. I blame all the booze last night, or something. Unbetad, so drop me a line if you see any problems.

It started, as these things often do, without anyone’s conscious participation.

John was huddled in particularly damp doorway one particularly damp Boxing day evening, waiting for Sherlock to finish a small bit of breaking and entering through the back door of a Jermyn street tailor shop when a movement out of the corner of his eye brought John whirling around in a crouch, hand on the gun tucked in the back of his trousers and heart pounding in his ears.

A puppy, a tiny little russet-colored thing with long, bedraggled ears, was nosing around in the corner bins, his paws a filthy, muddy mess.

“Christ,” John swore, and the puppy perked up his ears and turned to see where the sound was from. “Oh no, you stay where you are. Stay,” John said, and then turned back to the door to wait for Sherlock. That’s all he needed, a little trouble maker poking around and making noise.

The puppy cocked his head at John for a moment before he dropped his belly low, and began inching his way across the alley in John’s direction. John groaned.

“No!” he hissed. The puppy ignored him. John waved his hand at the dog, trying to startle him, when the door popped open and Sherlock tumbled out, looking annoyed.

“Nothing,” he spat. “We’ll have to try tomorrow. And where did that dog come from?”

John shrugged. “No idea. Why?”

“He…he looks sort of like the dog I had as a child, that’s all.”

John couldn’t even imagine Sherlock owning a dog, but as he left the alley he glanced back and found the tiny puppy staring after him. John shook off the pang of sympathy and thought he had enough lost and lonely souls to look after as it was.

………………………………………………………………….

Turns out, though, that little puppy eyes are hard to forget.

Tonight they’re making another attempt to find what they were looking for in the tailor’s offices, and John patiently waits in another dark doorway with a little box of kibble he’d picked up earlier in the day. Sherlock had rolled his eyes at him, muttered “sentiment,” under his breath but said nothing else as John shook out a few bits and waited to see if the little pup would reappear from among the bins in the corner. Sure enough, about ten minutes after Sherlock disappeared through the door, the puppy poked his nose out and sniffed the air in John’s direction.

“There you are, boy. Come on, then. Come get some dinner.” John crouches low, holds out a handful.

The puppy creeps across the alleyway again, swipes a kibble from John’s palm, and ducks back out of John’s reach. He eyes John warily for a moment before he reaches out for another bite. John slowly touches two fingertips to the top of the puppy’s fluffy little head and, when the puppy doesn’t flinch, strokes slowly.

“You’re a cute little guy,” John says, and gives the dog more food. “I should probably call animal control. You really don’t look like a stray. A bit too pure-bred. Like one of those…oh, what are they called?”

“Irish setter,” Sherlock says. John startles and drops the box of food, where it scatters across the asphalt.

“Christ, Sherlock, can’t you make a bit of noise? I damn near wet myself.”

Sherlock simply smirks and pops the collar on his coat. “I’ve found what I needed. The files were uploaded to the private server this afternoon. Let’s go, if you’ve finished with your bit of animal activism.”

The puppy has retreated to the corner again, and it watches John and Sherlock with bright, interested eyes. John reaches out and scratches the puppy between the ears for a moment. He should do more, honestly. The poor little guy must belong to someone, and maybe they’re looking for him. John snaps a quick picture with his mobile and resolves to find the nearest shelter who could come get him. A siren wails by, echoing off of the brick walls, and the pup ducks back behind the bins. John feels a pang of guilt as he follows Sherlock down toward the street, Sherlock already with a hand up to hail a cab.

………………………………………………….

“I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but we just don’t have space for another puppy right now. Have you called Hearts At Home rescue? I’m sure they’ll have some space.”

John sighs and wipes a hand over his face. “No, you’re the fifth one I’ve called. After Hearts at Home. There just isn’t anywhere open.”

“Well,” the patient voice on the other end of the call says, “Have you thought of taking him in yourself?”

“Well, I—“

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock says from the sofa. He turns a page of the newspaper and rolls his eyes when John silently flips him off.

“As I say, I considered it, but, well, the flatmate, you know. Between you and me, he’s a bit of a dick.”

The man on the phone snorts a laugh. Sherlock shoots him a glare and John grins back. “Well, best of luck to you, then,” the man says.

“Thanks,” John replies, and hangs up. He turns to the lump of blue dressing gown that is Sherlock curled up with a pile of newspapers. “I should take him in, for at least a little bit. Just until a space opens up at a shelter, or someone claims him.”

“No. He’s a puppy. He’s not housetrained. He’ll eat everything in sight, and piss on the floor and generally make a mess. You’d have to take him out at all hours until his bladder grows big enough to hold it all night. He’ll whine. He’ll bark. He’ll harass clients. He’ll demand to sleep in your bed and then take it over. Then there’s vet bills and food bills and all the other things about money you’re always harping on me for. So, _no thank you.”_

“You…really seem to have a lot of knowledge on the subject.”

“Yes, I told you, I had a dog once. And it was an experience I don’t care to repeat.”

John is surprised. “That’s awfully definite. Was it a terrible dog, or what?”

Sherlock glares at him from under stormcloud brows. “He was the best dog. And he died. End of story.”

John sighs. Of course. _Sentiment._ Knowing that a dog’s lifespan is necessarily short, Sherlock would be loath to let himself get tangled up in that situation again. God, how unbearably sad. A man so terrified of loss he’d cut himself off from even minimal affection to never feel it again.

John wonders what that says about the two of them.

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

John holds out for approximately 36 hours. And then he goes after the little puppy, bribes him with a strip of dried beef into a carrier he borrowed from the neighbor, bundles him into a cab and back to Baker Street before Sherlock even deigns to get out of bed for the day.

John has the carrier open and a bowl of water and food near it, and they're playing tug when Sherlock wanders out of his room, yawning and scratching his head. He stops dead in the doorway to the sitting room, takes in the scene with disbelieving eyes, and sighs.

“Good to know my objections were taken into account as you decided on this harebrained scheme.”

John tugs the sock a little harder and the puppy gives a playful growl. “Sure. Same as you take into account my objections regarding severed heads in the fridge.”

“That was _one time_.”

“Once is enough, thanks. Besides, he won’t be forever, just a little bit, until the shelters open up some space. Oh, hell. No, NO!”

John snatches at the puppy as he lifts his leg against the sofa, causing the startled pup to dribble pee across the floor as he’s hoisted in mid-air. John rushes him outside and pops him into the tiny back garden where he noses among the shrubs, but, irritatingly, doesn’t try to pee again. John sighs.

“You’re going to be a hassle, I can tell. But I couldn’t leave you there. Maybe I should try to call you something. Red? No. Mr. Jenkins? Hah, no, that’s terrible. Sherlock would never let me live it down.” As John watches the pup wandering in the sodden grass, a voice from down the alley shouts “Oi! Toby!” The puppy lifts his head immediately, looking around for the source of the sound. John shrugs.

“Okay, then. Toby it is,” he says, and then jumps and swears as Toby wanders over and piddles on his shoe.

………………………………………………………………..

For the first few days, Sherlock refuses point blank to have anything to do with Toby whatsoever. He ignores all attempts to play on Toby’s part; all the bouncing, playful yips and nips at his heels go unheeded, toys pile up at his feet, and he yells for John to take Toby out even when John is all the way upstairs and Sherlock is right there by the door. Toby has no sense of self-preservation, it seems, because he follows Sherlock around like it’s his job. He sits at his side in the kitchen or next to his chair, Sherlock’s indifference not fazing him in the least.

John, for his part, loves playing and wrestling on the floor, and Toby already has figured out that climbing in John’s lap is the best place for cuddles, his long legs and big feet flopping off the arm rests. John finds it soothing to hear Toby snuffle into his ear, the little wriggly body curling in next to his on the sofa. John finds the midnight calls for outside a bit difficult to manage, though. It’s like having an infant, woken at all hours to tend to basic needs – but he adjusts, and by the third night barely even wakes up as he gets out of bed to let Toby out and down the two flights of stairs to the back door. He’s doing well at housetraining, only peeing on a pile of papers once and having a poo outside Sherlock’s door, which John almost left there as Sherlock’s just desserts for being such a crab.

But the day before New Year’s Eve, as John is tidying up, he hears Sherlock talking in the kitchen, a quiet little narrative of deductions and questions. When he peeks around the corner, there Toby is, sitting on a kitchen chair next to Sherlock and trying to reach a test tube brush lying on the table.

“No, Toby, that’s had too many poisons on it to count. And the bristles wouldn’t be pleasant for your digestion. Let’s move that.” A quiet sigh, and Sherlock tentatively reaches out and places one large hand on Toby’s silky head. Toby immediately tries to lick Sherlock’s fingers. “Don’t get used to it. You’re not going to be here long.”

John turns back to the pile of laundry he’s folding and smiles. Maybe there’s a little crack in the ice after all.

…………………………………………………………………….

“If you’re not going with me, then you have to promise to let Toby out every two hours.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, John, I’m not interested in having him piss on the rug any more than you are. But don’t expect more than that. I’m not playing tug or fetch or anything else.”

“Are you sure you won’t come? I hate the idea of leaving you here by yourself on New Year’s Eve.”

Sherlock sniffs and reaches for his book. “Pointless, really. Who wants to watch a clock count down to midnight, as it does every single night. The difference between December 31st and January first is beyond me, other than it seems people think they can change themselves, somehow. They never do.”

John shakes his head and dishes out Toby’s dinner, trying to get the kibble in the bowl around Toby’s enthusiastic attempts to eat right out of the measuring cup. “That’s not really the point, though it does feel a bit like a fresh start, I suppose. Seeing the old year out, the new year in with your friends and loved ones.” John watches Toby finish his food in record time and bound over to flop down on Sherlock’s feet. “Maybe finding new ones, if you’re lucky.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I’m not… well. No. I’m staying in.”

John narrows his eyes. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you in the new year.”

“Yes, yes, goodbye John, don’t get alcohol poisoning.”

“Yeah, thanks, Sherlock. That’s cheerful.”

Sherlock shrugs and pointedly opens his book. John figures he might as well go while he can, so he pats Toby on the head and pulls on his coat and makes his way toward Lestrade’s local to have a few drinks, determined to enjoy the evening.

………………………………………………………….

“Couldn’t convince him to come, eh?” Lestrade says over the din of the group of lads playing darts and roughhousing in the corner.

“Nah, he’s just not comfortable with this sort of thing.” John settles on one of the long benches and prods at his beer mat. “Hate him being alone, though.”

“You’ve got that puppy, still, right? That ought to be a laugh.”

John chuckles. “Well, yes and no. I think they’ve come to some sort of an understanding. Perhaps.”

“Well, it’s good for him. Give him someone else to consider once in a while. Besides, it won’t be there much longer.”

John thinks about giving Toby up to the rescue or shelter and shudders. Despite Sherlock’s minute thaw the other day, he seems still firmly in the anti-dog camp. John thinks about Toby, his big brown eyes and soft muzzle, and the way he curls up against John’s back at night when he sleeps, snuggled into John’s bed despite John’s attempts to get him to sleep on the pallet he’d made on the floor for him. He thinks about Sherlock, tentatively reaching out to touch Toby’s head, and the way his eyes softened when Toby licked his fingers.

John sort of wonders if Sherlock needs Toby even more than Toby needs them, and resolves to find out.

…………………………………………………………………………

The night wears on, various members of NSY joining in at their favourite pub. It’s been noisy and raucous and John’s on his third pint when someone suggests they all do Blow Job shots. Everyone cheers, so John shucks his corduroy jacket and rolls up his sleeves. It’s hot and everyone is just on the right side of pissed, and just as John bends to pick up a second shot glass with his mouth from between PC Smithwyke’s parted knees – what’s his name again? Chris? Chad? Who cares, he’s stunning, with bright blond hair and green eyes – John’s phone chimes his text alert.

_Is kung pao sauce bad for dogs? Shouldn’t be, right?_

Oh, God. Just as John types a message – _stop giving Chinese food to the dog_ – his phone chimes again.

 _There may have been an incident. Hope you didn’t like that green jumper especially._ There’s a picture attachment, with a pile of green jumper that looks a little singed around the edges, and in the background is Toby, mouth open and tongue lolling out, looking rather pleased with himself.

 _Time to be with your friends and loved ones,_ he hears himself say.

John looks at the time – eleven thirty. He could just make it home by midnight if he leaves now.

“Sorry, mate, I’ve got to dash. Sherlock’s somehow—“

Lestrade holds up a hand. “Say no more. Good luck with whatever it is. Hope nothing’s on fire.”

“Not any more, at any rate,” John mutters as he shoves his arms in his coat sleeves and bounds out the door. It’s not hard to find a cab, as everyone is sitting tight at this time of night, and John directs the driver to Baker Street. John’s jumpy and watching the clock the entire time, and when he finally reaches home it’s five minutes of.

He takes the stairs two at a time and realizes he’d better quiet down so he doesn’t startle Toby into barking. The door to the sitting room opens quietly, and there’s Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa, with Toby lying on top of him, one paw on each shoulder and his head tucked under Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock’s got one arm over Toby’s back and the other over his head. They’re both sound asleep.

John slowly removes his jacket and creeps over to sit on the coffee table. He reaches out and lightly caresses Toby’s head, and fights the urge to do the same to Sherlock. Toby blinks awake, and when he twitches, Sherlock’s eyes flash open.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re home. Is it past midnight, then?”

John lets Toby snuffle his hand. “No, it’s three minutes of. I was afraid you’d burned the place down.”

Sherlock snorts. “Nonsense. Toby had simply wished to have your jumper, and he dragged it too close to the fire. It was fine.” Sherlock quietly strokes Toby’s head. It’s quiet in the flat, a few creaks of an old house here and there, and John rubs one of Toby’s ears, fingers brushing against Sherlock’s as he does. John sighs, still slightly drunk but quietly content to watch Sherlock’s eyes glint in the dim light, and feel Toby nosing their hands. It feels like a turning point, of sorts. A shift of Sherlock’s demeanor that is more softly open, more serene. “My dog was put down when I was nine,” Sherlock says. “Mycroft was fifteen. He told me then that caring wasn’t an advantage, that it only leads to pain. To loss.”

“It can,” John says carefully. “But, and I know this first hand, it also brings joy and happiness. I wouldn’t trade all the moments of love and friendship and affection I’ve had to avoid the pain, I don’t think.”

Sherlock doesn’t say a word. John is loath to say more, and simply watches the clock on his phone count down.

“I think…I think we should keep him,” Sherlock says, breaking the stillness.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John lifts his phone so they both can watch the final fifteen seconds tick away.

“Happy New Year, John,” Sherlock says, and smiles as Toby tries to lick his chin.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock. To new friends and loved ones,” he ventures, stomach full of butterflies.

Sherlock curls one hand around Toby’s neck, and the other finds it’s way to John’s knee, where the heat of it jolts John’s heart. “To new friends and loved ones,” Sherlock says.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
